Musings on Reichenbach Fall
by Curreeus
Summary: The three years between Holmes' "death" and return were difficult for Dr Watson, but they were difficult for the detective as well.


There were no words, that last day.

Holmes rose at eight, much earlier than his usual when he'd actually slept. Watson rose at seven thirty, precisely his usual.

They both had breakfast together.

Neither spoke.

Afterwards, Watson helped Billy take his cases down to the waiting carriage, and Holmes read the newspaper – or, rather, looked at the words helplessly, until they ceased being words and were a tumble of shapes drawn in ink.

Silently, he watched Watson and Billy come to and fro, all the while saying nothing.

Then, at four minutes past nine O'clock, Watson's familiar tread sounded upon the stairs, slower than it had for the last hour, and without the patter of Billy's lighter footsteps.

He appeared at the door, and leaned on it with one hand.

He looked at Holmes.

Holmes looked back.

Any onlooker might have thought that, in the fashion of the morning, there were no words here either.

In reality, there were entire volumes of words that passed between them silently, but only a few that mattered.

_Please. Don't do this to me._

_Why?_

_You know why as well as I do. _

…_That I do. But nevertheless, I must. _

_I'm sorry._

_As am I._

Holmes had often mused that Watson's eyes had the peculiar ability to laugh, smile, and portray a myriad of other expressions by themselves. He had never, in all their acquaintance, seen them portray such profound sadness.

With a final nod, Watson slid his hand from the door frame and swept the room with his gaze one last time.

Holmes stood at the window in his dressing gown, pipe in hand, unlit, as he traced the figure retreating down the road and into the waiting carriage with his eyes. Without realising, he raised a hand to the cold glass, as though he could scoop him up and hold him.

He knew that he would still see Watson. It wasn't that. He knew that he'd still go on cases with him, watch his eyes light up as Holmes unravelled the mystery in front of him.

It was that now, if Holmes came out of a stupor and called for him in some half-conscious, panicked haze, Watson wouldn't hear, or walk past rolling his eyes. If he turned from his case notes to ask the good doctor a seemingly random question, he wouldn't be there with a quizzical expression, looking up from one of his novels, a cooling cup of tea in hand.

At night, only one heartbeat would echo around 221b to Holmes' oft sleepless ears.

He wouldn't wake Watson out of a dead sleep at god-knows-what o'clock to drag him out on cases. He wouldn't get to see that fuddled, sleepy and utterly endearing facial expression as he shook his shoulder and told him to be ready in five minutes.

He would still be there, yes, but he wouldn't be _there, _and Holmes felt the loss rather keenly.

Despite his success in his career, his life felt surprisingly empty for the good doctor's withdrawal from it.

As he stood, watching Moriarty's body tumble, doll-like, down through the mists of Reichenbach Fall, Holmes was unsure what he felt. His heart gave a little jump at the relief that he – that _Watson_ – was a little bit safer, and for a single moment that lasted less than a second, he entertained the notion of waiting for Watson, embracing him and telling him enthusiastically that it was over, it was all over, and if he had anything to do with it, nothing would come this close to hurting the good doctor ever again –

But he knew it was not to be.

Instead, he hid himself away in amongst the rocks of the fall, closing his eyes and wishing that he could simply ignore Watson's calls, growing in desperation as they went on, until finally the doctor fell to his knees and openly wept, clutching Holmes' false farewell note, believing that his only audience was the deaf rocks around him.

Little did he know that behind one of the unfeeling boulders, tears fell silently from the grey eyes belonging to the man he had dedicated pages upon pages of words and the majority of his life to.

Holmes did not, as a general rule, lie to Watson. He withheld information, true, and he fudged the truth sometimes to get Watson to more easily play along with his ploys, but he had never openly and with malicious intent, _lied_ to the good doctor. At least not with the intention of not telling him the truth… eventually.

But as he lit a cigarette on a street corner in a remote corner of Switzerland, he could not help but feel the immensity of what felt like a soul destroying lie pressing upon him like the weight of the earth upon Atlas.

Regardless of whether he had intended it or not, he felt as though he had betrayed the good doctor. He felt as though Watson had followed him blindly, trusting him, and Holmes had thrown him to the wolves and watched as they tore him apart. And no matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he rationalised it with himself – "it was for the best, it was the best course of action, there was no better way to do it, this caused the least collateral damage, he's a grown man, Watson can take care of himself" – he felt, in some small part of his mind, that he was leaving Watson unprotected, vulnerable to the attacks of Moriarty's men. What if he couldn't write a convincing enough report of his death to convince Moriarty's circles? What if they went after him next, looking for Holmes' location? He couldn't help but envision the emaciated, weak, traumatized Watson that he'd met in Bart's that fateful day so many years ago – the one that had seemed ordinary, plain, and dull, until Holmes had seen that spark in his eyes. A spark that spoke of a curious mind, a mind that would appreciate the mysteries given to it, even if it couldn't unravel them itself; a mind that would, in short, appreciate _him_ where so many others didn't.

And so he'd shaken his hand, and agreed to flat-share with him.

And years later, as he stood cowering behind a rock, he'd seen that spark evaporate from the doctors eyes, leaving a cold husk that was dead inside as it made the slow descent down the mountain.

Needless to say, the next three years were the most torturous, horrendous and quietly destructive that either of them had ever had to face.

"I suppose I deserved this."

Holmes shifted the cold compress on his face, nursing a black eye that was now blooming in shades of purple and red – like a sunset across his face, if one were to be poetic about it.

Watson frowned, muttering something under his breath. Holmes smiled at his back as the doctor stands to stoke the fire.

"You deserve all of that, and more - and I would have happily supplied it had I been certain that your skull could withstand the damage."

As soon as Holmes had revealed himself inside Watson's office, Watson had gone into something resembling shock before standing up to assure himself that Holmes was real.

By punching him.

Hard.

In the face.

Holmes had taken the blow with barely a protest as Watson yelled his lungs out at him, tearing at his hair and pacing furiously around the small room as Holmes stood there and received the wrong end of the bull-pup temper without a word. As his eye had started to puff up and turn purple, Watson decided that the rest of Holmes' chewing-out could wait for later and went to fetch some ice.

"I'm not nearly done on what I want to say to you, by the way. I'm just waiting until you are less distracted by pain and more able to listen."

Holmes chuckled silently.

"I assure you, I would be rapt with attention if you decided to continue now."

Watson shook his head.

He didn't really have more to scream at Holmes for. He understood the need for Holmes' deception, even if it had been for his own honesty and inability to lie that it needed to be done.

They were both content, at present, just to share the warmth of the room as darkness started to think about falling outside.

Neither of them would ever mention this moment to each other after the fact.

But in that room, for both men, the world seemed to right itself, causing a realisation that it had been wrong for months, as though a centre of gravity had been missing, and had just been returned.

It was nice to know that you were sharing a room with another person that, even after years apart, you knew intimately inside and out.

And not a word was spoken.

Not a word needed to be said.

A pair of blue eyes slid across to lock with a pair of steely grey, and in the manner of years before, spoke without saying a word.

_Thankyou._

As Holmes watched, a spark seemed to rekindle within the doctor, and it was as though they were both young men again, waiting for the next adventure.

And they would do it as they had always done it.

Together.


End file.
